


Under My Skin

by Flywoman



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s04e13 Never Again, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-10-31
Updated: 1998-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:31:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flywoman/pseuds/Flywoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not a song story, but the title says it all. Scully's thoughts, Mulder's memory, and a missing scene from "Never Again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Chris Carter, Glen Morgan, and James Wong should be credited for all of the characters and most of the events in this story. But since they wussed out and saddled "Never Again" with certain distressing ambiguities, I'm rolling up my sleeves to offer my own interpretation of events.
> 
> Dedication: To NaK, Jennifer Stoy, and of course Nascent, for sharing an indelible experience. I wouldn't have missed that weekend for the world.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been too long since my last confession.

"I've always gone around in this... this circle. It usually starts when an authoritative or controlling figure comes into my life. And part of me likes it... needs it, wants the approval... but then at a certain point along the way I just... you know..." At a loss, I gesture with my right hand, fingers splayed stiffly as if I were pushing someone away, or warning him to back off.

Ed Jerse, intent, mimics this movement with a questioning look. I frown slightly and begin again. "Okay. Ummm... my father was a Navy captain. I worshipped... I *worship* the sea he sailed on. And when I was thirteen or so, I went through this..." again the gesture "*thing*... where I would sneak out of my parents' house and smoke my mother's  
cigarettes. And I did it because I knew if he found out he would kill me... And then, along the way, there are other... fathers."

"Sounds a little like your time has come around again," Ed observes, but I hardly hear him; my brain has finally caught up with my mouth and I am occupied in regarding myself with surprise and consternation.

I can't believe I just said all of that. It's the alcohol talking. To his credit, Ed has been sitting there, sucking it in with a soft gaze and an understanding half-smile. But I still can't agree with his earlier assessment of the Hard Eight Lounge. No, there may be dozens of sorry cases milling around our booth, but we're the sorriest of the lot, Ed with his barren little apartment and his war wounds and me, waxing bathetic over my third gin and tonic. I warned him. I don't get out much, I said. The understatement of the decade. I have been starving through my skin. How else to explain how I ended up in this crummy bar, practically in the lap of a man I've just met despite the feelings of unease I can neither explain nor reconcile with Ed's easy charm, his earnest gaze.

And he is beautiful. Dana, you do know how to pick 'em. Classical planes to his face, stunning green eyes even in the murky light of the lounge, a mobile, sensitive mouth, and gorgeous clean limbs that move fluidly beneath the confines of tight slacks and crisp dress shirt. But sometimes, like just now, when he's quiet, listening, peering sympathetically at me with those unfathomable sea-colored eyes, my voice catches in my throat and I have to look away for a moment, willing the unwelcome overlay of my partner's features to fade. Mulder has no business here, of all places. This is my life. Why can't he leave me to it for one goddamn minute? And then I glance back, and he is just Ed again, Ed Jerse whose wife has ripped his kids away in an ugly divorce and whose arm was half-covered in blood when I arrived early at his apartment a little over an hour ago.

The listening alone should have been sufficient reminder. In the first few hours of acquaintance I have told this man more about myself, my relationships, than Mulder has heard in four years of partnership. Perhaps if Mulder knew of my propensity for self-revelation under the influence, he would have tried plying me with liquor long ago.

It's not that we never talk. It's just that when we do, it tends to be all about him. Because he's unbelievably focused. Self-centered. He's had to be, I suppose, all these years, the knight in tarnished armor on his ridiculed solitary quest.

But no, that's too easy. Because it's also me. Because I have hoarded my own shameful secrets, my self-doubts, my frailties. Because I have accepted the gift of his vulnerability, I have fed on it and repaid it in quiet calm, in strength. Our mutually sustaining exchange has allowed me to feel needed. Used. Absorbed. But I am a parasite fully as much as he.

God. Alcohol is supposed to blur one's thinking. Why am I the victim of this terrible clarity in the moment of my greatest desire for simple self-pity? With effort, I banish these thoughts and return my attention to the man before me, to the flesh that somehow seems less solid than my partner's absence.

He has been explaining the motivations behind his tattoo in his smooth, now somewhat slurred voice. Through the pleasant haze of the gin I watch him attentively, the subtle lift of brow and curl of lip; I memorize him, carefully, systematically, an old trick to catch the trailing edge of sobriety that for once doesn't seem to be working for me. I can't even hear him anymore, and all I can think about is that damned tattoo, calling to me from beneath the folds of linen and gauze like a secret siren. I want to see it again. I tell him so, in a playful tone that belies the ragged note of need in my voice.

He looks away for a second, then back, hesitant, serious: "You know, Dana, just because I marked the moment of wanting to go forward doesn't mean that it worked."

I hear my own voice rise in my ears, throaty, pleading, "I want to *see* it," and I reach for him over his protest.

"It's scabbed up-"

"It's okay," I say impatiently, poised for an impromptu unveiling, but his hand snakes up to snatch my wrist and I gasp. He is astonishingly strong and his face swims in my vision, mere centimeters away. His hot, unsteady breath bathes my cheeks. At last he speaks:

"If you're so curious, get your own."

I stare back into those eyes, playful yet somehow at the same time deadly serious, cocking my head a little as this novel thought diffuses slowly through my soggy brain. It's not that I've never toyed with the idea before. Very recently, in fact - this afternoon in the tattoo parlor, I'd noticed a particularly nice bit of work, and momentarily envisioned it emblazoned on my own pale skin. Something must have changed in my expression with this recollection, because Ed nods slowly, loosening the clamp on my thin wrist.

Abruptly I am freed, and Ed is rising, pulling a wad of crumpled bills out of his wallet. I gulp the last of my drink and scoot out over the quilted faux leather seat of the booth. Hazy halos of light crown the table lamps, the glasses, our fellow customers. I feel almost as though I were floating, as if the laws of gravity were operating under different parameters for me right now. I allow the buoyant invisible force to lift me effortlessly to my feet, but when I try to take a step forward I stumble, the room turning perversely on its edge. But now Ed has me by the arm. "Let's get you some air," he says considerately, and I nod too quickly and close my eyes for a second, then open them. Everything seems to be whirling lazily around us, but Ed's grip is rock steady.

Outside, the icy air is a sobering slap to my flushed face. The snow has stopped, leaving the streets slushy, glittering. Fortunately we don't have far to walk. Across the street, the word "TATTOO" smoulders in red neon against a backdrop of painted flames. The windows of the parlor beckon with bright cartoons and darker designs that catch and swallow the reflected light from the streetlamps. We shuffle over the asphalt, mindful of the treacherous slickness under our feet.

Once inside, I pause for a second to get my bearings under the soft glow of red paper lanterns and multicolored Christmas lights and then head unerringly for the design that caught my eye this afternoon. It's a stylized ourobouros, a slender serpent swallowing its own tail. A self-imposed circle. _Everyone gets tattoo they deserve._

The middle-aged Russian artist, Comrade Svo, smiles and nods and beckons me to a seat. While he readies his instruments, I have plenty of time to reconsider. Part of me can't quite believe that this is all happening - the part that reacted with shock and incredulous amusement when I called Ed earlier this evening to arrange a date, the part that tsk'd disapprovingly as I downed three cocktails in quick succession and confessed intimate details to a man I'd barely met. This part points out that the most rebellious act of my teenage years was smoking my mother's cigarettes, and that if my parents hadn't pierced my ears for gold studs for my Baptism I might never have had it done myself. Dana Katherine Scully gets straight A's and commendations. She does not get tattoos in seedy parlors after a bout of hard drinking with an attractive stranger. But if the soothing haze of the alcohol cannot quite silence this voice, it can dwarf it, diminish it, make it a laughable self-important whine instead of the potent force that normally governs my actions. So that I hear it only as a faint mosquito, and swat the irritating hum away with an impatient hand.

There is the question of location. I am not so far gone that I would consider placing a tattoo where it would be visible to those with whom I interact professionally. No, this will be hidden, private, personal. My beautiful secret. And I have it now. The small of my back, just where Mulder's hand rests casually almost every time we're together. I try to suppress a smug grin at the thought of him touching me on our next case, never suspecting the existence of the coiled serpent, separated from his flesh by a fragile layer of cloth. I anticipate the heady thrill of hoarded revelations, but also of the fear of discovery, the threat of exposure and ridicule. _Sounds a little like your time has come around again._

Svo is ready now. I lean forward, shivering slightly as the cool air caresses my lower back where my suit jacket has been lifted, exposing me. A quick hiss, and I gasp, startled by the icy prickling of mist from a spray bottle. Now I feel the cold steel glide of a safety razor next to my spine. I look nervously up at Ed, who smiles reassuringly as Svo prepares to sterilize the area. The rub of a moist cotton ball leaves me with a faint tingling sensation as the ethanol evaporates from my skin. I have the distinct impression that I am being prepared to enter into a holy place, to be initiated into some sacred mystery whose significance up to now I have barely glimpsed. I have been bathed and shaved and anointed before I am brought before the Lord...

I am already braced for pain, every nerve ending sings, but I have forgotten the decal, which is pressed into my damp skin before the backing is pulled off slowly, inexorably, leaving the outline dark beneath. I cannot see it of course, but my senses are aroused to such a fine pitch that I imagine I can feel every stripe upon the serpent's tail, the cold gleam in its alien eye. As the artist pulls on a pair of latex gloves, Ed reminds him, "She wants the same red. Like mine." Yes. That extraordinary red, the colour of madness, rich as the blood that dotted my pillow the other night.

The scene has taken on an eerie dreamlike quality. The old Russian seems to move in slow motion behind me as he dips his electric needle into the dye, and now the low buzz penetrates my teeth. For some reason, I am no longer afraid, or else the sheer excitement at the prospect of this intrusion, this voluntary defilement, has masked my fear to the point  
where I am no longer capable of recognizing it. I wait, precariously poised on the pinnacle of anticipation. I look up into Ed's intent but encouraging eyes. The needle approaches my flesh, forcing the air aside in audible hunger. This is my body, this is my blood...

My deep breath turns into an involuntary gasp as the needle contacts my skin. The artist begins on the outer edge of the design, and it tickles, it burns, it sets my nerve endings alight. I can feel myself smiling broadly in wonder and elation at the tingling flush of arousal that sweeps over me. I don't know exactly what I expected, the sensation of abrasion, a piercing pressure. I never anticipated this exquisite mixture of pleasure and pain. It is the delicious bruise of the deepest and most intimate kiss.

Ed holds my gaze, his green eyes flaring with a reflection of my surprise and delight. We are breathing in time, caught in a powerful, unspoken communion, like nothing I have ever experienced outside of my partnership with Mulder. But at this thought, the connection falters, and I look away for a second, suddenly ashamed at being such an intense focus of Ed's attention. It briefly occurs to me to wonder what I am doing here, what ethical rules of conduct I am broaching with this lonely man. I still haven't so much as mentioned Mulder; in fact, I began our acquaintance with a lie. And yet in all other things I have been astonishingly open - transparent - with him. I glance back, exhaling to steady myself.

Now Ed crosses in front of me, leaning in and around to peer behind at the process. He glances quickly, sidelong, at my face, then back to Svo's gnarled, confident hands. His smell, a tantalizing melange of whiskey and clean male sweat and cigarettes, lingers in my nostrils as he straightens, moving away to recapture my eyes. I have slipped back into a sort of ecstatic trance, but now I meet his gaze again, smiling in shared delight. The ink seems to be leaking directly from the needle into my bloodstream, a straight shot of almost narcotic bliss.

It is not all like that. As Svo moves toward my spine, the sensation becomes less enjoyable, more invasive. A bee sting, drawn out over half an hour, so that any individual moment is easily bearable but the cumulative effect begins to distress. Sweat breaks out on my brow. The seconds seem to stretch themselves out like glassy beads on a string as I grit my teeth, distracting myself from the pain by trying to recall which superficial nerves are responsible for which sensations. If I close my eyes I can see the colored cartoon maps, the stripes and rings of dermatomes, from my anatomy textbook. I am a long way from medical school, but I count the nerves carefully, five lumbar, four sacral, and then, because I can really feel it now, a sensation like having one's tooth drilled with insufficient novocaine, I continue by reciting the cranial nerves and the structures they innervate, in order. The facial nerve with its many diverse branches takes me a long time, and before I can finish, it is over, he is done.

The artist smears some kind of slippery antiseptic ointment over the tender abrasions and tapes a gauze bandage over it. So be it, now and forever, amen. I let out the breath I have been holding with a deep sigh. Ed smiles a little anxiously as he helps me to my feet. "Are you okay?" he asks. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine," I say automatically. But the truth is, I feel strange. Different somehow. I cannot articulate it, but I have been altered in some fundamental way by what most would probably regard as a purely cosmetic change. Marked, maybe, set apart. Or perhaps I am merely feeling the end to a very unusual evening and wondering how to reconcile this  
spontaneous Dana, smarting from her novel incorporation, with the severe, predictable Scully who arrives punctually at the office every day in impeccable drab suits and always, always does as she's told.

Without ever really discussing our destination, we walk slowly back to Ed's apartment.

Once inside, he switches a desk lamp on, looking older and weary in its harsh light, then crosses the room to peer through the cheap mini blinds. "It's really bad out," he observes to the bitter night, then turns to face me. "Look. The weather and a few drinks under your belt... I'd feel better if you stayed here."

It's true, the storm has worsened, and I don't relish the idea of driving back to the hotel. The effects of the alcohol I've drunk have faded, leaving me mostly sober but tired and acutely aware of Ed's proximity. And there is something else as well, something that I can't quite identify or explain: I still feel light-headed, unnervingly buoyant. There is a sharp flutter in my stomach, and my vision is slightly blurred. I wonder if I'm coming down with something, and then it dawns on that it's after midnight and I'm in a room alone with a highly attractive man who isn't my partner, and it's been so long since this particular situation has presented itself that it's no wonder if I'm feeling a little out of my depth. I avoid Ed's eyes but can't keep a smile from spreading.

"Hey." I finally look up at him. He has been watching me closely, and can't have missed my wry I-know-where-this-is-headed expression of the moment before. "I'm not up to anything, I just want you to be safe - I'll take the couch." At this I cast my eyes down again, trying to hide my grin. He really seems like a nice man; perhaps he's made his offer in all sincerity, with no premeditated seduction strategy at its root. But I know, even if he doesn't, that if I do stay it will be the result of a conscious choice to add one more reckless, seemingly impulsive act to this incredible night. It's been far too long. And just like that, the decision crystallizes for me. I've completed my "assignment." Temporarily, at least, I am free. I will stay. And if he's really not up to anything... I'll just have to change his mind.

"That tattoo hurt at all?" he asks solicitously now, without showing any outward sign that he glimpses my newfound intent.

I pause, struggling to analyze and categorize the confusing mix. "Yeah, um..." To my surprise, I have no inclination now to shrug off his expression of concern. At work I've always been perceived as tough, a real little trooper, and worked hard to maintain that image. But tonight the experiences I've shared with Ed have left me feeling oddly exposed, unabashedly vulnerable. Throughout the course of the evening I have endured the gradual sloughing off of my normally unbreachable defenses, manifested as a frightening yet delicious sense of a nakedness like the fragility of new, pale, tender skin. This, maybe, is the reason I feel so light despite my weariness. Perhaps I simply had become deadened to the weight of that personal armor until unexpectedly stripped of it by alcohol and intimacy.

But there is still something else. I endeavor to describe it for him, knowing before I begin that the prospect is hopeless but impelled to try, ever the clinician who believes that by enumerating the signs and symptoms and assigning a name to the condition she will somehow acquire power over the disease. "It feels weird..." Alive. Alien. Part of me, and yet not. Etched like acid on the surface of my skin and coursing through my bloodstream like a heady wine. "I can't see it..." But I can feel it, even more vividly now than on the stool in the tattoo parlor under Svo's needle, every dot, every line. "I feel different..." frowning now. Initiated. Branded. Transformed. "it's like, uh..." I flap my hand in frustration, helpless to articulate the complex thoughts and feelings that roil just below the surface, emerging only briefly before disappearing back into the depths. "I don't know how I feel about that," I conclude at last with a rueful little laugh.

He moves closer to me, and I glance up sharply but then still, heart pounding, as his scent once again assaults me, beguiles me. Slowly, carefully, he lifts my jacket and peels the bandage from my back. The touch of his hand on my skin draws a deep shudder from me despite myself. "It looks all right," he says reassuringly, and smooths the dressing back  
into place. A little shakily, this time.

My gaze happens to light on his sleeve, which appears to be spotted by fresh blood. This isn't right. "Ed, you're bleeding again. Will you let me take a look at it? I _am_ a doctor..." I strip off his coat as he protests weakly that the artist said this might happen, then remove his shirt, not permitting myself to be distracted by the sight of him, firm smooth flesh rippling with tension. His bandage is soaked through; I glance briefly up at his face for permission before pulling it away. My mouth twists into a grimace at my first glimpse of his pretty tattoo girl; she still winks jauntily up at me but there is an oozing scar between her smug eyes. It has every appearance of a vicious burn, probably from a cigarette, possibly self-inflicted.

"Ed, it looks burned," I murmur. Without warning, Ed reacts, jerking up to grab my wrist and wrenching it painfully as I gasp in surprise. He seems to be caught in the throes of some violent internal battle. Meanwhile I am left pressed up against him, close enough to inhale the moisture of his unsteady breath, which is still faintly laced with alcohol. I feel extremely peculiar, mentally fuzzy, detached yet unbearably present and aroused. I have the vague sense that I am missing, or have just missed, something vitally important here, but I cannot for the life of me discern what that might be. My doubts are drowned by the rush of blood in my ears, the thunderous erratic rhythm in my chest. This is the moment my body has strained towards all evening. The moment when the tangle of words and glances and brief brushes of skin on skin will coalesce. I exhale sharply with nervous anticipation.

Without releasing my wrist, Ed closes the gap between us.

At first our lips meet gently, tentatively. He's still not quite sure that I want this from him. I reassure him by letting my mouth go soft and open as I snake my free hand around his back to draw him more firmly against me. He responds gladly, eagerly, flicking his tongue lightly over my lower lip and then sliding it into my mouth. Sour smoke and sweet whiskey, potent and unexpectedly arousing.

I find myself startled by the taste and feel of his mouth - his lips are thin and mobile, not the warm plushiness I had imagined. Then I actually catch myself thinking, "But he doesn't smoke," and I realize that on some level my absent partner has managed to intrude on us once again, that with my eyes closed I have been responding to the long-awaited advances, not of Ed, but of Mulder. For a second I am torn between sadness and fury, and then these feelings in turn galvanize my belated, almost belligerent, response.

I push back, taking him deeper, pressing against the corners of his lips hard enough to bruise, and he lets out an involuntary little moan. I force him backwards, down onto the couch, then spread my knees wide enough to straddle his thighs, all the time sucking mercilessly at that unfamiliar, delicious little mouth. And I'm a multitasking sort - while he is distracted, I manage to work his belt loose and unzip his fly, wondering how best to free those slender hips from his now-creased pants.

At this point, I realize that the front door is still open. When I pause for a second's internal debate, Ed's eyes flutter open. "Dana? What's wrong?"

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," I say, pressing his lips together briefly with my index finger, "just hold on a second." I lever myself up a little awkwardly and cross the room, draw the door to, bolt it securely. Ed comes quietly up in back of me and encircles me from behind, his groin burning against my buttocks. He presses against me softly, then more insistently, his face buried between my neck and shoulder. I twist around in his grasp and take hold of the waistband of his trousers, but he surprises me with a hand on mine and shakes his head _No._ When I hesitate, uncertain how to proceed, he begins backing slowly towards the bedroom, tugging me gently along, his luminous eyes fixed on my face.

Ed strands me just inside the doorway, facing the bed, and again positions himself behind me. He begins to unbutton my blouse, slowly and methodically but with a kind of brutally dampened hunger. He finishes with the jet buttons at my cuffs, then rips the whole from my back in one swift, decisive movement. Now his warm hands glide around my ribcage to cup my breasts gently through their delicate cages of silk and soft lace before efficiently unhooking the clasp. My slacks follow, puddling around my feet.

I make no move to assist him; while I usually prefer to take a more active role, it has been a long time since I have been breathlessly unveiled like a priceless work of art, and I am determined to enjoy this. Now he is down to my pantyhose. He pauses, kneels, and runs his palm up the inside of my right thigh with excruciating care until he reaches my crotch, the damp rose hidden behind the layers of nylon and cotton, and I gasp as his fingers flick upwards to stroke me there.

I can feel the moisture flooding me and fight to hold still as he continues to brush me rhythmically through that tissue-thin barrier. It is all I can do to keep from reacting, from bearing down on that finger and rubbing myself shamelessly against it. Patience, Dana. Enjoy this while it lasts. It will be over too soon as it is. But I am deeply grateful when he finally leaves off toying with me and reaches up to strip me completely, rolling my panties down with my nylons, painstakingly enough not to snag them, and accompanying his progress with a series of wet, torturously slow kisses down the backs of my exposed thighs. I start to tremble, my knees locked together to prevent myself from sinking down on top of him.

But it appears I am saved, because in the next moment he grasps me around the waist and nudges me forward, facedown on the bed, my spine rounded, my forearms sinking into the mattress. I hear the rustle of Ed's pants falling to the floor. Am I about to be taken violently from behind like a cat in heat? I tense, ready to struggle, confident of my ability to  
incapacitate even from this supremely vulnerable position. But no. He bends over me, runs the tip of his nose lightly up my spine to the sensitive nape of my neck, then presses the length of his beautiful body against my back as he leans in to nibble at my throat and graze his teeth along the curve of my ear. Oh. My. God.

When you get used to deriving all of your erotic satisfaction from your own hand and a battery-powered appliance, you sometimes forget just how extraordinary the human mouth can be. Ed's is the source of a wealth of wonderful textures, from soft lips to wet, agile tongue, to the sharp scrape of teeth, and the fact that I cannot predict which one I will be experiencing from one moment to the next adds enormously to the excitement of our mutual seduction. At the same time, I am acutely aware of his cock twitching hotly between my thighs, and even as I groan with delight at his skill in locating my upper erogenous zones, I am wriggling eagerly against his groin, trying to get that slippery tease up between my legs where I want to feel him most.

Distracted by my movements, Ed presses against me for a moment, thrusting himself roughly against the pale plush of my thighs, but then abruptly backs off, exhaling raggedly. Then he gently lifts my hair up away from the nape of my neck and places his lips there, sighing, raising the fine hairs with the uneven whisper of his breath. He begins working his way back down my spine in zig-zag fashion, pressing his mouth wetly on either side of my vertebrae, leaving small patches of moisture that tingle as they dry stiffly on my skin.

When he reaches the level of my nascent tattoo, Ed stops. He lifts his right hand from the mattress and brushes his fingertips tenderly over the bandage, causing me to wince slightly and close my eyes. Then he slowly lifts the gauze before bending down again to kiss me in the center of the raw ring of the ourobouros. Not stopping with a simple flicker of lip on skin, he opens his mouth and sucks hard until I let out a moan, feeling the flesh blush purple beneath. For a moment I am back in the tattoo parlor, fighting not to squirm at the delicious sting of the electric needle, and Ed and Comrade Svo are blurring together in my head. A low whimper begins to build in my throat.

Still in no hurry, damn the man, my lover finally leaves the throbbing bruises he's created and ventures lower. I can sense him shifting his weight, kneeling in preparation for the next offering in this celebration of the sacred. Given the brief respite, I realize that rolling over on to my back is a painful prospect at best, but my present position has struck me as both awkward and undignified. Perhaps-

OH GOD.

My eyes squeeze shut helplessly as I begin to writhe, digging my fingernails into the musty comforter. I can't see him, I don't know what he's doing or how on earth he can reach from that angle, but I don't care, am incapable of caring,

because OH GOD I am being consumed by a sharply focused flame as his tongue pushes into me, then spirals outward in incandescent rings,

and I was so ready when he began that there is no hope of drawing it out any longer no matter how slow and tender and patient he is,

and I am distantly aware of the cool tip of his nose and the scratch of his jaw,

but every nerve ending strains for his mouth, that incredible generous pouty mouth that coaxes and cajoles and catches me teetering on the brink for far longer than I would have believed physically possible,

and then slides unerringly to my clitorus and _sucks_ , brutally and divinely and utterly without mercy-

And I _cannot_ prevent the cry that rips itself out of my throat; the best I can manage is to muffle it by gagging myself savagely with the back of my wrist, "MUL-"

And the immediate universe implodes in wave upon wave of ecstatic crimson, leaving glittering trails of starlight down the insides of my eyelids...

***

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been too long since my last confession.


End file.
